Work of Art
by Jennifer Harrison
Conclusion

I was exhausted by the time we got back to the hotel room, in the early hours. The second performance had not been quite as painful as the first – I think Francoise had gone easy on me – but the spiders were just as terrifying. I have a genuine phobia of them, and I wondered if Francoise had an inexhaustible supply.

I was glad to get out of the corset and lie in my bed, naked. After having to listen, once again, to Serge and Francoise noisily making love, my thoughts went back to what my tormentor-in-chief had said earlier – ‘I am so hot right now! I am going to give you such a good time later!’ What had she meant? Had she even been serious? I certainly needed a ‘good time’ right now – I had not been allowed an orgasm, and I needed one so badly!

I was startled when I felt a body sit down on the bed, and I turned to see the outline of Francoise’ naked body over me. I felt a finger laid on my lips to warn me to keep quiet. The duvet was pulled away, despite my clinging on to it, and dumped on the floor. I felt her hand on my stomach, caressing me, moving downwards, making me draw a sharp breath as it cupped my sex, and two fingers slid down between my thighs. She leaned down over me, and I felt her nipples brush against the flesh of my breasts.

“Do you want me to show you a good time, ma petite?” she whispered.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, hardly able to breathe. I didn’t think I was a lesbian, I was just desperate!

“Don’t be frightened,” she said as she leaned closer, pressing her body against mine, and kissing me aggressively, her tongue forcing into my mouth and exploring, as I tried to respond. I felt her hand close around my wrist and pull my arm above my head on the bed. She broke the kiss, and a moment later, I felt something around the wrist – a rope! She was tying me to the bed?!

“Non, Maîtresse! S’il vous plait!” I whispered urgently as she took my other arm and started to tie that too.

“Sssh, petite souris! Don’t be frightened! This won’t hurt at all.”

She reached down and I felt rope tied tightly around my ankle, then my leg pulled off the side of the bed. She quickly tied my other ankle down the other side of the bed, and I was spread wide, unable to resist her. Not that I’d done anything to try to stop her before. This was now a fantasy situation – I’m helpless, do your worst! ‘This won’t hurt at all’ – God, I hoped that was true!

I nearly screamed when I felt her lips on my lips – and I don’t mean another French kiss! She put her hands on either side of my pussy and pulled, opening me up like a flower, and I could actually feel her hot breath on sensitive skin on the inside of my slit. When her tongue touched me, I let out a stifled squeal, and for the only time in my life, I wished I was gagged. I was almost there, all I needed was for just a little attention on my clit! I was writhing on the bed, pulling at the ropes. It was dark, I was naked, tied down, and being teased and tormented – God, I’d never felt so sexy in my life!

“Shall we try a little mutual satisfaction?” she asked in a temptress kind of way.

“Oui, oh Oui Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, struggling to contain my excitement.

She twisted around on the bed, her knees either side of my chest and lowered herself, so that her face was over my pussy, and hers was inches from my mouth. Both descended together and, half-crazed by my frustrated lust, I eagerly leaned up off the bed and stuck my tongue in. She tasted – frankly – disgusting. Obviously, I knew how I smelled down there, but I’d never tasted a man’s semen before, and I think that’s what I was tasting now – Serge’s cum, from their earlier sex session. But I just went for it – I could feel her tongue licking around my slit and down around the entrance to my… okay, vagina is the only word, even though it sounds so clinical. I was so desperate to cum, I would have done anything – probably something Francoise was aware of and was exploiting.

As her tongue flicked tantalisingly, I dug deep, trying to force her to climax, so that she would bring me off too. I was having some success with my ‘no prisoners’ approach, as I heard her working herself up to full volume. As she became more and more excited, she was doing less and less for me, but I remembered the incident in the shower, when she had become very aggressive when I tried to stop. I felt I was past the point of no return, and so was she, now sitting up and riding my face, in the same way as she had ridden her husband’s cock. I could hardly breathe as her thighs pressed down against my cheeks, her pussy covered my mouth, and my nose was shoved between her buttocks – I had to make her cum just as a matter of survival! At last she was really screaming, and suddenly there was a flood of juices from her pussy into my mouth and face, honestly, it was like she’d wet herself!

She finally got off me, and I was able to breathe good, clean air again. But I was still writhing on the bed, left hanging on the edge.

“Maîtresse, s’il vous plait, je viens aussi?” I whispered desperately – please make me cum! She leaned down and kissed me full on the lips.

“Hmmm… I think… non, not tonight ma petite souris, maybe tomorrow.”

“Oui, Maîtresse. Merci, Maîtresse,” I replied, almost in tears at my frustration. She went back to her own bed, leaving me tied down, so I couldn’t even do it myself! I did feel a silent tear run from my eye, as I lay there, wondering how I was going to get myself out of this mess.

- o O o -

When I awoke in the morning, I’d been untied, and I was allowed to go and shower alone, albeit with no clothes for the trip to the bathroom or back, but I didn’t meet any guests. Francoise helped me into the corset, dress and shoes, and we left for a publicity session – a well-known magazine wanted to do an interview with Serge, while Francoise and I were to go with the magazine’s photographer for a ‘glamour photo-shoot’, whatever that meant. It would provide much-needed funds for the tour, so I would have to go along with it

The art director and I headed to the botanical gardens by the Seine, where we met the photographer, Claude, a balding man in his fifties, who looked at me with very poorly disguised lust. He discussed his plans with Francoise – all in French, naturally, so I had no idea what was going on – while I tried to control the fly-away hem of my dress.

We moved to a quiet area of dense foliage and posed for some fairly standard shots – Francoise alone, both of us together smiling and laughing, me on my own, in rather more suggestive poses – leaning back against a tree with my foot raised up the trunk so one knee was bent, bending forward and pouting, giving an impressive view down my cleavage, straddling a fallen trunk suggestively. Francoise stepped in and pulled the puffed sleeves off my shoulders, exposing a little more flesh for the camera, which whirred as Claude fired off more shots. Then she handed me a pot of honey, with a honey dipper, just like the girl in the film, and encouraged me to hold it up, then let the honey drip onto my chest, oozing down between my breasts. More whirring, more shots.

I saw Francoise in the corner of my eye as I posed approaching again, but this time she thrust a clear perspex box under my nose – and I screamed, very loudly. Inside the box was a tarantula! A big, hairy-legged, bird-eating spider!

“Calm down, Terèse,” she scolded, “it’s harmless! It’ll make a great prop!”

“Non, non, non, Maîtresse, s’il vous plait, non!” I squealed, backing away. She now looked annoyed and, handing the box to Claude, grabbed my arm and hustled me over to the tree I had been photographed against earlier, pushing my back against the rough bark. She fished in her bag, and pulled out a very shiny pair of handcuffs!

I really tried to get away now, whining in terror. But I found out just how much stronger than me the French woman was, as she gripped my arm, locked a cuff around it, then twisted it behind my back, and behind the tree. The cameraman put down the box and stepped forward to help, grabbing my other arm and pulling it back so that the other cuff could be locked on. I was trapped! I let out another, desperate scream, but it was cut off, as a large rubber ball was forced into my mouth and the strap buckled around my head – I was gagged!

I focused on Francoise before me, pleading with my eyes for mercy, but the expression I saw on her smiling face was pitiless.

“Mmm, you look good with your lips stretched and your mouth full! I must gag you more often.”

She reached for the neckline of the dress and pulled it down, exposing the cups of the corset holding my breasts. She fiddled with them and, to my surprise pulled them away – they could be unzipped, apparently – fully exposing my breasts. She picked up the honey dipper and dripped more of the sticky, syrupy liquid onto my chin, my chest, and my nipples. I could hear the camera, as Claude tried to capture it all.

Francoise put down the honey and picked up the box again. I watched in horror as she opened the box and allowed the spider to crawl onto her hand. As she approached me, I screamed hysterically into the gag, pulling frantically at the cuffs, trying to get away, all in vain. Inexorably, the vile creature came towards me, bringing the spider with her. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the horror.

I felt something touch me and my eyes shot open. I looked down and saw the tarantula just sitting there on my left breast, covering the nipple. I froze, my mind gripped with terror, just staring at the motionless arachnid. I only started to scream and cry again as it walked, incredibly slowly, across my chest to the other breast.

This nightmare went on for another ten minutes, and I have tried to block the memory from my mind. Finally, the spider was put back in its box. I was released and, ignored by the other two, who were deep in conversation, I shakily readjusted my clothing, trying to scrape as much of the syrup from my body as I could.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze. There was some food, there were some meetings, there were drinks, there were old men ogling me, then I was back on the web, naked and helpless.

“You were very brave today, souris,” Francoise cooed as she stroked my hips, “and I’m going to give you a special reward.”

She held up a vibrator, a huge vibrator, black and shaped like a ten-inch cock, complete with veins and even balls! I watched hungrily as she smothered it in lubricant, lowered it to my hole, and eased it in. I let out a long moan, full of pent-up longing, as it slid into me, stretching me, filling me up, until its balls were resting against my thighs. Switch it on! Please! Now! I said nothing but I’m sure she could read the message in my eyes.

But instead, after bringing me right to the edge, she eased the thing out of me, leaving my pussy feeling like a fish out of water, gasping for sustenance.

“More of that later!” she promised, and I fervently wanted to believe her, as she once more raised me up.

Both performances that night were traumatic, because the little spiders brought flashbacks of the tarantula crawling on me, and my desperate screams rang around the gallery. Not that the audience objected – the more real my torment, the more they seemed to enjoy it. I was grateful to get back to the sanctuary of the hotel room.

“So, do you want your reward now, little mouse?” Francoise asked when all three of us were naked. My bottom was sore from the abuse it had received, my body ached, but my pussy was still dripping from all the stimulation it had been receiving over the last few days.

“Oui, Maîtresse, s’il vous plait,” I whispered, ashamed at my wantonness.

My Mistress – that was how I was beginning to think of her! – moved a small coffee table to a spot a couple of feet from the end of the bed, then put the black dildo right in the middle of it – the ‘balls’ had suckers under them, and the phallus pointed straight up at the ceiling. As I stared at it, imagining myself sitting on it and bringing myself off, Francoise came up behind me. She pulled my arms behind me, and I heard the handcuffs click shut around my wrists, meaning I would have to do it without using my hands. Serge came over and switched on the vibrator, then sat on the edge of the bed, facing me, his hand stroking his semi-erect cock.

“There you are, petite souris,” Francoise murmured in my ear as she reached around and fondled my erect nipples, “your chance to achieve satisfaction, just climb on board the ride to heaven!”

Oh, God, I wanted to so much! But they would both be watching, I’d die of embarrassment! I couldn’t! I felt a hand drift down across my stomach and start to play with me, just raising my arousal levels that little bit higher…

Slowly, almost reluctantly, I moved forward. I had to really spread my legs to get myself over the silicone monster, and I hovered there for a second, my dripping cunt – oh God, I can’t believe I used that word! – almost touching the vibrating column, before I gently lowered myself onto it, a moan which was almost a guttural howl coming from me. I took it all inside, all ten inches, even though it was painful, and rocked gently back and forth on it. My eyes fixed on Serge’s cock, which was fully erect now, and I exploded in a tremendous orgasm which had been building for days. It ran through me like bolts of electricity, making my muscles jump and spasm. I made at least as much noise as they had the previous nights, and I didn’t care that someone was banging on the ceiling for quiet!

I stayed on, wanting to ride on to another climax, and another, and another, until I was utterly exhausted! Suddenly, Serge sprung up off the bed and was there, in front of me, his rampant cock pointing directly at me. He moved forward and I tried to sway back, away from it, but Francoise was behind me! She held my head in a vice-like grip, prising my jaws apart, and then my mouth was filled by the shaft as she forced me forward onto it.

I choked. I gagged. I nearly threw up. Then I came again, the sensations just as intense as the first one. I was concentrating on breathing, not being sick, and those amazing vibrations, when I suddenly found myself with a mouthful of semen! My throat refused to accept it, and it flowed out from my lips, down my chin, and onto my body. Francoise pulled my head back, allowing Serge to now spray his seemingly never-ending cum into my face, until I was covered. I continued to go backwards, pulled by my hair, until I was sprawled on the floor, the dildo no longer inside me.

“Sweet dreams, petite souris,” I heard Francoise say, though I couldn’t open my eyes to see, because of the gunk across my eyelids. I felt the ballgag stuffed into my mouth and strapped tight, then the lights went out. I felt used, dirty, and deeply ashamed of myself – what kind of sex-crazed slut was I becoming?! I lay on the floor, in the dark, and cried myself to sleep.

- o O o -

The next two days in Paris revolved around the show – when I wasn’t there, I was pretty much confined to the hotel room. At night, I was not sexually assaulted as I had been previously, but I was kept handcuffed so that I couldn’t ‘play with myself and ruin my performance’, as Francoise put it!

I felt that I was being held prisoner by Serge and his wife, my only purpose being to perform in their sick show and to satisfy their perverted sexual desires. Even if I could escape, where could I go? I had no money with which to get home, and Francoise had even taken my passport ‘for safe keeping’! If I went to the police, what could I say? I had come here of my own free will in full knowledge of what I would be doing, having completed three days in London. I had even signed a contract specifying what was required of me. My protestations of being duped, bullied and tortured would be countered and challenged by the French couple, and who were they going to believe – two well-respected French citizens, or a penniless British student hoping to make some easy money?

They had me firmly in their grip, and things were only going to get more difficult, as we left Paris and headed south to our next venue, Cannes on the French Riviera. They were hiring a van to transport the exhibition materials down, and Serge would be driving.

“I’m sorry, cherie,” Francoise said to me when we went to get in the loaded van, “there’s only enough room in the front for two, you’ll have to ride in the back.” With all the other exhibits, I thought. I knew this was just another humiliation, another way to dehumanise me, but what could I say? I clambered into the back of the van, and watched as they closed the roller shutter and padlocked it, imprisoning me once again.

It was dark, cramped, and stiflingly hot in the metal container of the van. I quickly took off the dress and found a piece of cardboard to fan myself with, but I was soon covered in sweat, making the corset even more uncomfortable, though of course, I couldn’t remove that. I think that’s where my weight loss began, right there in that sauna of a vehicle. I bet I lost a few pounds that day! I found some old dust sheets and lay down, trying not to get motion sickness from the rolling progress down the Route du Soleil (highway to the sun).

The van stopped a couple of times for fuel, but they didn’t bother to open up the back, even to check I was still alive. By the end of the day, I was starving and dehydrated. When they finally unlocked and rolled up the shutter, it was dark outside, and I could tell we were in a truck stop, parked up, and presumably staying in a truckers’ motel overnight. I grabbed my dress and went to get out, but Francoise tossed a baguette and a couple of bottles of water onto the bed of the truck and, before I’d even got to the entrance, slammed it shut. I heard the padlock reapplied, and realised I wouldn’t be sleeping in any motel! I searched around blindly in the pitch black and found my ‘dinner’ – dry bread and lukewarm water. I’d called myself a prisoner, now I was on prison rations!

I passed an uncomfortable and scary night. In the morning, there was a bang on the wall by the cab.

“Are you okay, souris?” Francoise’ voice called out through the metal wall.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, though I didn’t feel okay but stiff, tired, and with a blinding headache.

The truck started off, and the day proceeded much the same as the previous one, except it got gradually hotter and even more uncomfortable. By the time we arrived at our final destination, it was night once more, and I was so exhausted, I could only crawl out of the truck, and stand very unsteadily in the hotel car park. I pulled on the dress, and was led to a back stairs – they had paid for a double room, and I had to be sneaked in to avoid paying extra.

The room was up ten flights of stairs, and I was exhausted before I started, so it was a struggle, to say the least! I was grateful to get out of the corset and shoes, and even more so to have a proper shower in the en suite bathroom. Francoise led me out onto the balcony and showed me the spectacular view – it was a beachfront hotel, and we looked out over the Mediterranean sea. Ten floors below was the road along the seafront, then one of the most famous beaches in Europe!

“Beautiful, n’est ce pas?” Francoise said as we gazed out over the blue water, turned silvery by the moon.

“Oui, Maîtresse,” I replied. Even though it was quite late, and I was naked, the air was pleasantly warm.

The big question was, of course, where was I going to sleep? Serge came out on the balcony, and handed a roll of foam rubber to Francoise.

“Ah, I envy you, petite souris,” she said. Serge gave a snort of derision.

“I don’t know why you call her ‘little mouse’,” he sneered, “she looks like a big fucking pig to me!”

I tried to ignore the gratuitous but hurtful insult, and concentrate on what Francoise had said.

“Pourquoi, Maîtresse?” I asked.

“Because you get to sleep under the stars!” she replied, unrolling the mattress and laying it on the balcony. I looked at her questioningly, but she seemed quite proud of finding a new way to humiliate me.

“Lie down!” she ordered, brooking no argument. Reluctantly, I sank down on the mat.

Francoise went inside for a moment, then came back out, and she had a length of chain in her hand. She wound one end around the bottom of the balcony railing, padlocking it in place, then motioned for me to come closer. I crawled over towards the rail, and had to just sit there as she wound the other end of the chain twice around my neck, then closed a padlock through the links. She pulled me forward and kissed me hard on the lips, then stood up and walked back into the room. The balcony doors closed, the key turned in the lock, and the curtains closed.

I couldn’t believe it! It was not bad enough that they treated me like a servant, now I was to be locked away like a slave?! How could one human being treat another in such a way? I felt utterly alone and helpless, but I was so tired that I had no problem falling asleep.

- o O o -

I woke early the next morning, stiff and cold, but the sun soon warmed me up.

“Good morning, little one!” Francoise said, as she threw open the French windows. “You’re not needed during the setup today, so I think you should get some sun.”

She released me and led me inside, where Serge was dressing, and he ignored me altogether. God, I was so over him! At least Mistress Francoise acknowledged my existence, took the time to think of me, even if it didn’t always work out to be to my benefit. I was shocked at myself, that I was thinking vaguely nice things about the woman who had basically taken away my freedom! What was wrong with me?

“Put on your shoes, then I have a bathing costume for you to wear when you go to La Plage.”

The ‘costume’ turned out to be nothing more than a black thong! This had to be a sick joke, surely. When I went to the beach, I wore a one-piece costume, a wrap-around skirt and, if I could, a chunky knitted sweater to cover me up! The idea of these monsters in front of me on the loose in public was unthinkable. But, it appeared I had no option – a pair of six-inch heels and a thong which just about covered the area I had shaved, and left my arse hanging out, was going to be my attire for the day.

“Here’s some tanning oil,” Francoise said, passing me a bottle, “and here’s 20 euros for the entrance. Now be careful! I don’t want you getting sunburn!”

“Maîtresse… peut etre… couvrir la?” I fumbled with my non-existent French and pointed to my breasts. Surely, I can’t walk around with these on display?!

“Don’t worry, souris, everyone goes topless in Cannes.” There was a snort of derision from Serge, as if to say ‘not if they’re that big!’ Rude bastard!

With that, I was dismissed. I went down the stairs and across the road to the serviced beach area I had seen from the balcony. It was still early, but there were several sun-worshippers already there and, yes, the women were all topless. However, they all looked like catwalk models, with their perky little breasts, not giant melons like mine! I found a sun lounger in a corner, and oiled myself up. A waiter came straight over and asked what I wanted. I panicked – the entrance fee had used up my 20 euros and I couldn’t afford a drink! But I was already dehydrated from the previous day.

“Er, l’eau, s’il vous plait,” I said, miming a glass being filled from a tap. Two minutes later, he was back with a tall glass of iced water.

“Trois euros, s’il vous plait,” he said, leaning down towards me. Jesus, 3 quid for a glass of water?! Only in Cannes! Or Paris, London, Rome…

“Er, j’ai pas d’argent, monsieur, pardon,” I said apologetically, indicating I had nothing but the inadequate clothing I was wearing. He smiled and gave me a wink, then left. Maybe he liked big girls, or girls with big tits at least! I had a little fantasy involving me having to suck him off to pay my bar bill, and smiled – someone had finally done something nice for me! Every time he saw my glass empty, he came over and gave me a fresh drink. It made my day.

Normally I take a stack of books on holiday, so I was bored just lying there and sizzling. I saw one of the beautiful people doing stretching exercises, and I suddenly thought that if I was going to be treated like a sex object (!), on display all the time, maybe I should try and make sure my wobbly bits only wobbled when I wanted them to. I’d never been to a gym in my life, and I’d stayed out of gym class at school – why give the bullies more material? – but I started doing stomach crunches and other exercises to try and tighten everything up. It was hard work, but I found I actually enjoyed feeling out of breath and sweaty for the right reasons. I think the cute waiter liked to see me hot and sweaty too, which was fine by me! That was the beginning of a fitness obsession that I've maintained ever since.

I sheltered under the parasol during the hottest part of the day, then lay out through the afternoon.

“You look simply divine, souris!” It was Francoise, standing over me. She was dressed in a thong, the same as me, but with a large sunhat and a wrap-around skirt, and she looked absolutely fabulous. She pulled up a lounger next to me and we spent the afternoon sunbathing together. She chatted away, but I was still only allowed to use French, which meant I was largely restricted to ‘Yes, Mistress’, ‘No, Mistress’, and ‘Thank you, Mistress’ when she bought me some very welcome food.

Despite these restrictions, I really enjoyed our afternoon. It was like spending time with a naughty aunt – your mum’s younger sister who the family disapproved of, because of her ‘loose morals’ and hedonistic ways. Francoise’ conversation was intelligent, witty, and at time, downright funny. She told me all about the bitchy world of commercial art, was well aware of Serge’s rampant self-regard, and took the mickey out of him hilariously. But it was clear that she loved him deeply, and really believed he was a genius, and would do anything to support him.

As for our relationship, she clearly thought of it as a ‘bit of fun’. I was outraged by that at first, but it set me thinking. I had always hated my body, yet here I was, surrounded by people who thought I was sexy (except for Serge) – ‘big and beautiful’, rather than just overweight and stupid. I was experiencing sex in ways I couldn’t have even imagined before. Okay, I resented being treated like a child, or a servant, or even a slave, but I quite liked the idea that I was a sex object! Maybe I was so naïve and inexperienced that I deserved to be treated like that. Was I developing Stockholm syndrome, where the kidnap victim begins to see themselves through their kidnappers’ eyes?

Whatever, a couple of hours later I found myself naked and strapped once again to the web – new city, new gallery, new audience, but the same old helplessness.

“I have some good news for you, souris,” Francoise said with a smile, “no more spiders. I could see how frightened you were, and it was too much for the show.”

“Oh, merci, Maîtresse,” I said, mightily relieved that that particular nightmare was off the agenda.

“We just need to find a new spark for the your performance, n’est ce pas?”

She went around behind me, and I let out a squeal of surprise when I felt her reach around and attach clips to my pussy lips – they didn’t hurt, but I was nervous of what they might do later.

As the performance began, I looked up to see what awaited me – maybe Francoise had lied, or maybe she had substituted some other creepy-crawly for the spiders. But, as the mechanical arachnid appeared, I screamed because of the sudden sharp pain of a pulse of electricity directly into my pussy, shocking me in more ways than one. As the spider came level with me, the speaker crackled into life.

“I hope that didn’t hurt too much,” Francoise’ voice said, “I’ll make it up to you.”

When I looked down, I could see that the black vibrating dildo had been fitted to the spider’s abdomen, and was now approaching my wet, welcoming pussy. As it slid home, I let out a noise somewhere between a squeal, a scream and a moan, it just felt so incredible. Francoise brought me to a noisy climax and, as the audience below me applauded, forced me to deliver an exquisite encore! By the time I was lowered back down after a second, equally pleasurable performance, I was worn out. But Francoise seemed to have been fired up by the show and, with me still strapped spread-eagle to the web, almost literally devoured me, kissing and groping me, sucking my nipples and letting her hands roam all over my oily body! Okay, I was thinking, I’m really tired, but if you want to go for this, I’ll definitely be up for it…

Francoise quickly stripped out of her blouse and skirt, revealing her usual elegant, sexy underwear – power blue basque, spaghetti-string panties – and pressed her hot body against mine.

“I am going to really make you suffer, now, petite souris!” she breathed into my ear.

“Maîtresse?” I quailed, fright suddenly gripping me.

“Yes, you’re going to be begging me for mercy!”

And she was right. For the next thirty minutes, she tortured me relentlessly, using her lips, tongue and teeth on my breasts, and her fingers on my clitoris to bring me, time and again, to the very edge of release but leave me tantalisingly short of the ultimate satisfaction. I didn’t believe anyone could do that for so long, or that it could feel any more frustrating, but I was wrong. When she went down on her knees and flicked me with her tongue, I knew what they meant by ‘exquisite torture’.

I was begging her for mercy at this point, as best I could, but she just kept on teasing me. My worst nightmare was that she was going to stop, but then my second worst nightmare was she would keep on doing what she was doing! She straightened up and pressed herself against me, her face inches from mine. I felt her fingers spreading me open once more, and touching my swollen little button.

“Are you ready now, little one?” she asked quietly.

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, my voice shaking. God, I was so ready! Please don’t leave me this way!

“What would you do, to come right now?”

“Tout, Maîtresse! Tout le Monde!” It was the closest I could get to ‘everything’ in my weak French – and I would have done anything and everything to cum right then, I was so desperate. She looked at me and smiled. As the seconds ticked by, I feared that she was going to deprive me.

Suddenly, she thrust her fingers deep inside me, reaching for, and finding, the spot which would send me wild. I screamed as I came so hard, but she kept driving into me, extending the moment of bliss until I was gasping for breath. At last, I came off the peak of the climax, but she was not satisfied, she wanted to drive me to a second glorious orgasm, and she succeeded. As I tried to catch my breath, I was in awe of the woman – she had just given me one of the most amazing evenings of my life, and I knew I would always be grateful to her for that.

We spent a week in Cannes, and it was the most fun of the whole tour. Mornings spent soaking up the sun and being ogled by my favourite waiter, afternoons laughing with Francoise, and evenings filled with spectacular sexual stimulation added up to a hugely enjoyable seven days – just the kind of thing I had hoped for when we set out!

The next few days, however, would turn out to be traumatic, and prove to be a turning point in my young life.

- o O o -

Our next destination was Monte Carlo, just a short drive along the coast. I was allowed to ride up front with Serge and my Mistress, and I was soon very grateful for this privilege. The scenery was beautiful and spectacular, and arriving in the principality of Monaco via the Grande Corniche coast road was marvellously dramatic.

We checked into our hotel in the late afternoon – I noticed the balcony, and assumed that would be my ‘bedroom’ tonight – and I was sent to the shower to freshen up. As I came back into the bedroom, Francoise had a surprise for me.

“We’re going to the casino tonight!” she cried, clearly as excited as I was when I heard this. “Serge’s backers have invited us to meet them there, so we need to get you dressed!”

I was surprised and delighted when she produced a new undergarment for me, something different from the white corset, which implied I would not be dressed as I would be for the show. It was a black satin waist cincher, which pulled me in as tightly as the corset, but did not extend over my breasts. However, it was accompanied by a strapless, half-cup bra, which managed to support my oversized assets, while leaving my nipples exposed. It was a feat of modern engineering!

But the absolute show-stopper was the dress. Black taffeta, strapless, fitted waist, flared skirt. It was gorgeous, and I knew I looked gorgeous in it! My usual heels completed my outfit, and the benefits of a week in the sun were clear to see, in all the sun-kissed flesh on display!

“Darling, you look stunning!” Francoise gushed, as she looked me over like a mother sending her daughter to the summer ball.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Serge commented as he came in from the bathroom. He looked pretty stunning himself, in a classic tuxedo and bow tie – I felt a little of the old attraction there, even though he was probably thinking he was the best-looking one in the room.

He was right, until Francoise came out in her outfit – a backless, full-length evening gown in red. Now, she really was stunning, putting us two into the shade.

We seemed ready to leave, but apparently I wasn’t finished yet. To my shock, and I have to say dismay, Francoise put leather bondage cuffs around my wrists and ankles, locking them in place. The final touch was a leather collar around my neck, closed by tightening a small grub screw. I was upset that I had gone from looking like an independent woman on a night out with her friends, to a sex slave under the control of the beautiful couple she served. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, it seemed that the cuffs and collar had added to my alluring looks, and I felt incredibly sexy. Maybe looking like a sex slave wasn’t the worst look…

We took a taxi to the casino and, as we walked under that famous portico, it felt like we were walking into a Bond movie! Serge was clearly the handsome villain, Francoise the beautiful but cruel power behind the throne. And me? I think I was the sweet ingénue, bedded by James Bond shortly after the opening credits and murdered horribly but inventively in the first reel!

There was a long period of standing around, trying to look interested as the great and the good – or at least well-heeled and wealthy – chatted to the artist and his art director, and I felt like a spare part. Suddenly, I realised that a man was standing very close to me, examining me, checking out the collar and cuffs. He was tall and slim, with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, and the dark good looks which indicated an Arabic heritage.

“You are the model, no?” he asked, in an accent which sounded like it had been learned at an English public school.

“Oui, Monsieur,” I replied diffidently. My Mistress had not ordered me to only speak French, but it seemed natural.

“You are very pretty,” he stated flatly, “what is your name?”

“Terèse, Monsieur,” I replied, using the French version of my name, I’m not sure why. I felt nervous and deeply uncomfortable under his unwavering gaze.

“But these,” he indicated the cuffs, and put his hand to the collar on my neck, “ indicate you are more than just a model?”

“Monsieur?”

“Are you owned by Serge or by his wife?” he asked bluntly, implying it had to be one or other, if not both. I shot a nervous glance across at Francoise who, catching my panicked look, detached herself from the group she was with and came over to us.

“Is everything okay, sir?” I was shocked by her deferential tone of voice.

“I was just admiring your slave,” he smiled.

“I think you may have read a little too much into Terèse’ costume for tonight,” she responded smoothly, “now, why don’t we see if Serge is available to describe his vision for the exhibition?” She led him away, and I took a swig of my drink. I realised my hands were shaking.

“Do you know who that was?” Francoise asked excitedly when she returned a couple of minutes later, “he’s Sheikh Ali Al Habsi, one of the richest men in the world! He’s a billionaire! And he likes you, you know. If you play your cards right, you would be set for life!”

I looked at her unhappily, wishing I could explain how uncomfortable I was made to feel by the way he had looked at me. I had no doubt he liked me, and would like to get with me, but I didn’t believe he gave a damn how I might feel about the whole thing. He didn’t look like he was used to asking permission…

We went into the gaming rooms of the casino, and split up. Serge went to the roulette table with a few of his patrons, while I followed Francoise over to the baccarat room. She sat down, while I stood behind her chair, watching the game unfold. There were quite a few other women standing behind their players, but they were exclusively tall, leggy, blonde, and beautiful, dripping in ostentatious jewellery, and each standing behind a much older man.

I had no idea what the game was about, and just watched the little piles of chips moving from one player to another. It looked like Francoise was quite good at this, as the pile in front of her grew taller. But generally, it was pretty dull.

There was a sudden commotion, and I looked around to see Al Habsi move into an empty chair at our table. He looked directly at me and smiled, an act not involving his eyes, which were cold and dead. The game resumed, and seemed to be interminable, but it looked like the best players were the sheikh and my Mistress.

“Perhaps we should play for something more interesting,” he said, and once again he was staring directly at me.

“What were you thinking?” Francoise asked, a knowing smile on her face.

“Why not a night of pleasure with your young… friend?”

“I’m sorry,” my Mistress replied, “that would be way beyond the table limit here.” The sheikh smiled, and I felt like someone just stepped on my grave. Thankfully, Francoise decided to leave soon after, and I was incredibly relieved to get out of there. I didn’t mind if I never saw that guy again! Back at the hotel, I was stripped of my nice new clothes, but the cuffs were left in place, and the chain was locked to my new collar – I got the impression these were permanent additions. I felt strangely secure when I was safely chained up on the balcony, and slept very soundly.

The show the next night was as exciting and satisfying as usual. I was even coping quite well with getting electrocuted in my pussy, knowing the pleasure which was to follow.

As I was lowered back down, I saw someone standing with Francoise, and my sudden feeling of dread was confirmed when I saw that it was the sheikh, staring up at my naked, glistening body. The two of them seemed to be having a pleasant conversation as I hung there before them, unable to cover myself, which for some reason suddenly embarrassed me. I didn’t want this guy looking at me close up. How mixed-up was that?

Francoise suddenly seemed to become cold and formal at some turn in the conversation, and shortly after that the sheikh left, looking far from happy. The French woman unstrapped me and returned me to the hotel, all in silence. Clearly something had upset her deeply, but I was struggling to form a question.

“S’il vous plait, Maîtresse, pourqoi… es Tu… annoyé?” I asked, clumsily and, certainly, wrongly. She looked unsure of whether she should tell me, eventually deciding I should know.

“The sheikh wanted to buy you from me,” she said, “he offered me a quarter of a million dollars. I told him I wouldn’t sell you for a million.” She kissed me on the forehead, gave me a tight hug, and left me alone

Oh my God! Bought and sold! How could that be?! We live in a modern world, people are not property, to be treated like cattle! But I realised that, if Mistress Francoise had agreed to the sale, there was absolutely nothing I could have done to prevent it. The thought that I, born and bred in England, with its democratic history, its abolition of the slave trade, could be sold into slavery, was the most scary thing I had ever encountered. I passed a restless night, trying to come to terms with my altered circumstances.

Francoise was up early the next morning, coming out to me on the balcony.

“We have decided not to fulfil the other three nights we were due to be here, I think it is too dangerous. Wait here while we go to the gallery and pack up. I’ll be back for you in a couple of hours.” With that, she left, locking the balcony windows and leaving me chained to the railing. I was scared by the obvious concern on her face – what did she think might happen?

It was less than an hour before she returned. But as the windows opened, I saw it wasn’t Francoise, but one of the hotel staff. Oh heck, what was I going to say now?! He came over towards me, but before I could explain, he had stuck a strip of tape across my mouth! He turned me face down and grabbed my arms together behind my back. I felt tape being wrapped around my wrists, then saw a second man, also dressed as a member of staff, come out onto the balcony. Tape was added around my ankles and knees, then they made me sit up, and wrapped tape all the way around my body and my legs. Despite all my struggling and screaming, there was nothing I could do!

There was a brief hiatus while one of the men disappeared back into the room. He reappeared a few minutes later with a pair of bolt cutters in his hands and, seconds later, I was ‘freed’ from the railing, lifted up and carried into the room, where I saw they had brought in a laundry hamper. It was no shock when they dumped my tightly bound body into the hamper and buried me under dirty sheets and towels. I felt the thing being rolled away – out of the room, into the lift, across some uneven surface. The towels were removed and I was lifted out, but only so I could be dumped into the trunk of a car, which was slammed shut on me. Moments later, the car was moving away.

I had no doubts about what had happened. Sheikh Ali Al Habsi had not taken Francoise’ refusal to sell as the end of the matter – what he couldn’t buy, he would steal. I was on my way into his control, and that prospect filled me with abject terror.

- o O o -

When the car came to a halt, I was bundled up in a sheet and carried a few yards, into some kind of building, before being put down and unwrapped. Two men – possibly the same two as had abducted me, but no longer in their fake hotel uniforms – pulled the tape off me, but then dragged me to the middle of the room. There was a metal hook suspended from the ceiling, and they put the D rings on my bondage cuffs over this, holding my arms above my head. They tied ropes to the ankle cuffs and pulled my legs apart, tying the ropes to eyebolts in the floor. As the men walked away, they disappeared into the shadows. The sound of a motor startled me, and I felt my wrists being pulled upwards, until I was stretched tight, my feet no longer touching the ground. I heard the men leave, and I was alone.

I felt like I was swaying slightly on the ropes, but then realised that was impossible, the whole room was swaying. I guessed we were on a boat, probably still in harbour, and I cried out for help as loudly as I could – maybe someone would be close enough to hear me. But the way the noise completely died scared me – the room was anechoic, and presumably sound-proofed as well. Jesus, this sick bastard had a torture room built into his fucking boat!

“Hello, Terèse.” I heard his voice, but couldn’t see him, he was hanging back in the shadows somewhere.

“Reply,” he ordered when I remained silent.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I replied. I’m not sure why I spoke in French – I think it was from loyalty to Mistress Francoise. I was still hers, not his, even though he’d stolen me. The irony of me now thinking of myself as property was not lost on me.

“You are not French, Theresa, and you speak it poorly. Speak to me in English.”

“Non, Monsieur.”

“Is this really what we are going to have our trial of strength over? Language? Well, I suppose you must draw your line where you can. You have lost your freedom, you have lost your clothes, you never had any dignity, so why not defy me over language?”

He walked into the light, and I saw that he was stripped to the waist, with riding breeches and boots. In his hands he flexed a long cane, and I suddenly felt very frightened, I had never suffered any form of corporal punishment, at home or at school, and had always abhorred any kind of pain. My resolve to resist, even in a small way, wavered alarmingly.

“You are a fat girl, Theresa,” he said as he walked around me. I tried to follow him, my eyes fixed on the vicious-looking cane.

“I like fat girls. My first girl was a fat girl. I was twelve, she was sixteen, the sister of a friend of mine at school in England. My father’s men brought her to me. Sadly, I was very inexperienced then, and she died after only two months of entertaining me. I am much more careful with my slaves now, they can last years if I want them to, if they still amuse me. Although, they might wish that they had died much sooner. I’m sure you are going to entertain me for a long time, Theresa.”

I was terrified now, and I was shaking. But I realised there was no point in begging for mercy – he was a sadist, and there would be no reprieve if I gave in to him, it was irrelevant.

The blow took me by surprise, as it landed across my buttocks. The pain was worse than I’d imagined and I screamed at the top of my voice, breaking down into sobbing as the line across my skin seemed to burn into me.

“I love the sound of a woman’s screams,” he said with relish as he came up close and put his face next to mine, “are you willing to submit to me yet?”

“Non, Monsieur!” I sobbed, wondering why I was provoking him.

“Good,” he growled, a maniacal glint in his eye, “not that it would make any difference. You will suffer as I see fit, there is nothing you can say or do which will change that.”

He stood back, and the cane whipped across my buttocks again, dragging another wretched scream from me. Again and again he hit me, until tears were streaming down my face, and my arse was one great blaze of pain. I struggled desperately against my bonds, but my body barely twitched in the ropes.

Suddenly, the point of attack changed, and I was ushered into a whole new world of pain as the cane swiped across my front, just below my stomach and just above my venus mound. As the pain flared, I lost control of my bladder and urine ran down my legs and spurted onto the floor. Al Habsi walked in front of me, and I saw the evil grin on his face, as if this was all part of his plan, which it probably was. He stood close, and I felt the cane striking the insides of my thighs close to my pussy. He waited until my eyes widened in horror, recognising where he was going, before directing the short, sharp blows upwards, directly onto my pussy. I thought my head would explode trying to cope with all this pain. I tried to somehow let it just wash through me, but it was impossible, how can you cope with being caned on your most sensitive areas?

There was a break, and I lifted my head to see him walking around me, watching me like a wolf, waiting for the injured prey animal to die. My hair was plastered down by my sweat, and my face was wet with my tears. I knew it would continue, I had no illusions that he would stop any time soon. This was a brief lull, to let the hopelessness of my situation sink in.

When it came, the next blow seemed even worse than the others, as it landed impossibly hard straight across my breasts, from nipple to nipple. Before I could catch my breath from screaming, the assault continued, blow after blow swiping across my breasts, then my stomach, then back to my buttocks, which were hypersensitive from the earlier beating. At some point in this flurry, I fainted into blissful unconsciousness.

When I came around, I was no longer hanging by my wrists, but lying on my back on a table. My buttocks and back were stinging, and I tried to roll onto my side, but I found that my arms and legs were strapped down and I couldn’t turn. I lifted my head and looked at my body, distressed to see the ugly red welts across my breasts, stomach and thighs, all of which looked swollen and throbbed with pain.

One of the sheikh’s men stood over me and had a pair of bolt cutters, which he was using to cut the locks holding the cuffs to my wrists and ankles. When he had removed all four, he worked the cutters between my skin and the collar around my neck, snipping through the thick leather. I was a little upset at this – they had only just been given to me – put on me, really - by the woman I had come to see as my Mistress, and their removal just reinforced the fact that I was no longer in the safety of her control.

The man now replaced the cuffs with ones made of steel, followed by a steel collar which he closed around my neck, fitting tightly enough for it to squeeze gently all the way around, but not tight enough to restrict my breathing. A moment later the man came back, and he was wearing what looked like a welder’s mask. He put a blindfold over my eyes and I heard something going on which sounded pretty industrial. I squealed as, several times, something burningly hot, touched me for a second on a wrist or ankle. Then he was working around my neck, and I held my breath. There was a strange metallic smell in the air, but soon, the blindfold was being removed and I was unstrapped from the table. As I sat up, I looked at and felt the cuffs. They were quite heavy, very solid, and very snug, with some kind of soft lining – I would not have been able to get a paper between them and me. There were four D rings on each, but no lock, and I put my hands to the collar, feeling the same thing. It was obvious they had been welded. That sounded, and felt, very permanent.

I was hustled out of the room, along a corridor, and up on deck. The boat was huge – a ‘floating gin palace’ I’d heard things like this called, racing drivers and Russian oligarchs parked them in the harbour in Monte Carlo. But we weren’t in the harbour, we were speeding across open sea, with no land in sight in any direction. The bright sun made me squint at the azure water, and I realised it was still the same morning I’d been kidnapped! It seemed so long since I had been safely chained on the balcony.

I was taken to the forward deck, where I saw a small cage with sturdy steel bars. A rope from the bars at the top went to the top of a pole, about ten feet tall. I realised that, like the torture room, the only reason the pole was there was for the torment of slavegirls – for my torment.

I was pushed into the cage, having to sit with my knees up by my chin so that the door could be closed and locked. The man who was in charge of me hauled on the rope and lifted me to the top of the pole. He tied the rope off, and then walked away, to get on with other, probably more important, tasks. I was left alone with my aches and pains, and my new slave collar and cuffs – his collar and cuffs.

I was left there all day, through the hottest part of the day, with no food or water. The motion of the cage, rolling against the pole as the boat pitched through the waves, soon gave me motion sickness and I threw up through the bars onto the deck below. The bars I was sitting on became murderously painful, as I couldn’t change my position and they pressed against my tortured flesh. I became light headed as my skin crisped and burned in the hot sun, descending into a semi-delirious state where I couldn’t think straight.

I remember at some point a deckhand coming by with a hose to clean away my vomit, and I tried to beg him to aim the hose at me, but my throat wouldn’t work, and I could only croak. At another point, I saw the sheikh, standing below me, drink in hand, looking up with a smile, before walking away. I fell into semi-consciousness.

The sun was going down when the cage was finally lowered, and I was let out. I couldn’t walk, and I had to be dragged below decks. I found myself back in the torture room, my ankles once more tied to the eyebolts in the floor. This time, my arms were joined behind me and hoisted up, so that I was forced to bend double as my hands were pulled vertically above me, making my shoulders scream in pain. My hair was grabbed and my head lifted, so that a ring gag could be forced into my mouth. My head fell back, but no saliva drooled from my mouth, it was bone dry. My head was pulled up again, and a hook was put into each of my nostrils and tied to the hook above, holding my head horizontal. God that hurt like hell! It was also very humiliating, but I was past caring.

“What a picture,” Al Habsi said as he strolled over, “the perfect position for a white western whore like you – all holes available for fucking!”

He walked behind me, and I grunted as I felt something thrust into my anus. It started to inflate like the one Francoise used in the show, but it went way beyond uncomfortable and only stopped expanding when I was screaming in agony. Now he squatted down in front of me, and as he stared into my eyes, hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spit it into my face. As it oozed down across my cheek, he straightened up, dropped his trousers, and pushed his erection through the ring gag, into my mouth. I didn’t lick or suck, and he didn’t expect me to, he just fucked my face until he came, spurting semen into my mouth, which I swallowed greedily, grateful for the moisture.

I watched as he went off into the shadows, and returned with a small flogger, with lots of nasty-looking leather tails. I waited as he disappeared behind me, trying to steel myself, buy you can’t prepare yourself to be whipped across your pussy! I just screamed as he worked the flogger between my legs and over my still-tender buttocks. Once he had got himself stiff again by hurting me, he thrust his cock into my virgin hole. He banged me hard, while I cried at the thought that this was the first time a man had ever ‘made love’ to me. Hah, what a sick, cruel joke.

When he was finished, he walked back past me to the door.

“Use her,” he ordered, and I saw half a dozen men walk into the room as he left. Over the next however long – one hour? Two? – I was raped multiple times in all my holes, each one of them using me at least twice. When they got bored or couldn’t get it up any more, they used the sheikh’s toys to torture me in any way they could think. I only knew it was over when my arms were released and I collapsed on the floor. I screamed afresh as my shoulders protested at the harsh position they had been held in for so long.

I was bundled back on deck and into the cage. The sun had disappeared by now, and I shivered in the cold sea breeze. I didn’t know how long I could survive this treatment, but I was already wishing I was dead.

- o O o -

I didn’t sleep at all that night, I just sat, shivering, my teeth chattering, thinking about the nightmare that my life had become. I must have dropped off shortly after dawn, as my body warmed in the early sun. I was awoken when I was unceremoniously tipped out of the cage and onto the deck.

I was led to the back of the boat, where the sheikh was sitting in one of those big fishing chairs. He looked very relaxed in tailored shorts and Hawaiian shirt, sipping a tall, refreshing drink.

“Good morning, cunt,” he said pleasantly, his goons laughing sycophantically at his ‘witticism’. “I thought we’d do some shark fishing this morning. Not many sharks in the Mediterranean, but you never know. String her up.”

My wrist cuffs were fastened to a chain which ran to a small crane. As I screamed in terror, one of the men picked me up and threw me over the side of the boat. My arms felt like they would be tugged out of their sockets as I swung at the end of the chain. I looked down and saw the water churning below me, then looked across at Al Habsi’s smiling face, and his men next to him, laughing at me.

“Lower away!” he called, and I slowly descended towards the sea. Soon my legs were trailing in the cold water, then, as I was lowered even further, a bow wave was forming across my stomach and kicking spray up over my breasts and into my face. I was terrified as I fought for breath, spinning around at the end of the chain. I managed to look up, and saw the men hanging over the side to watch my struggles, and they were soon joined by their boss. The boat began to make small turns left and right, forcing my naked body to trail behind in the wake like a rubber inflatable used to pull children. The water hurt terribly as it tugged at my large breasts, and beat against my stomach. Fear of drowning was the only thing keeping my mind off the horrible pain in my arms and shoulders. Al Habsi signalled for his man to lower me further, and suddenly I was under the surface!

I kicked frantically, trying to get back up, and it seemed an age before I finally broke the surface. I was now quite a distance behind the boat, and being dragged along at what seemed a great speed. The waves slapped against my face and body, and I was swallowing lots of seawater. It was a desperate fight for survival, and whatever I’d said to myself the previous night, just then I wanted to survive. They gradually reeled me back in, apparently in no hurry, occasionally letting the chain go slack, making me sink under the surface each time, until I had stopped struggling, and they finally pulled me out of the water. I was unceremoniously dumped on the deck, amongst the laughing crew, gasping for air and coughing up seawater. I was utterly spent, and this was only the start of the day!

I was set to work, like a proper slave, scrubbing the decks for the rest of the day. Once again, I was left exposed during the hottest part of the day, and had to try to work in the shade as much as possible. Every time a crew member went past me, there would be some attack on me. Sometimes it was as little as being spat on, other times a swift kick to the rear, but several times I was forced to give head, or I was bent over a rail and raped or buggered. It was horrible, soul-destroying, and so demeaning, but at least it wasn’t him, and at least I wasn’t being beaten.

As the sun started to go down, I was grabbed by one of the deck hands and taken below to the torture room. I was starting to shake in panic, but when Al Habsi came into the room, he had some shock news.

“It seems your Mistress is smarter than she looks,” he said, obviously deeply unhappy. My hopes rose when he mentioned my Mistress – had she found me? I hadn’t seen another ship all day, and it would take a squad of Navy SEALs to rescue me from here, but he looked worried…

“She has threatened to publicise your situation to the international press and, while she has absolutely no evidence to back up her story, these things always leave some residual smell, and I don’t want to embarrass my family at this delicate time.” That sounded like a crock of shit to me, and from his expression, I reckon he’d been told to stop displaying his filthy habits in public. I was suddenly elated!

“So, you will be going back to your former owner in a few hours’ time. However,” he added as he saw the smile spread across my face, “don’t be too happy, because I will use those few hours to best effect.”

Those few hours were, indeed, the worst in my life. The sheikh, true to his sadistic nature, didn’t waste time raping me, he got his kicks from torturing me, and he used his whole range of sick equipment on me. I don’t want to even think about that time, but there was electrocution, of my nipples as well as my pussy, and this was not a slight kick but felt like a car battery shocking me, which is probably what it was; there was a saw horse which almost cut me in half, and he flogged me while I sat on it; and there was more I don’t want to even recall.

When the time came for the exchange, my hands were tied behind me and I was taken on deck. They put me in a small speedboat and headed in to an unlit part of the coast. I was in the well of the boat, so saw virtually nothing, until they throttled back the engine, threw me over the side, and roared away back out to sea. I am sure I would have drowned even then, if Serge and Francoise hadn’t dashed into the surf and helped me ashore. When my arms were untied, I threw them around Francoise’ neck, and we both wept tears of joy, relief and exhaustion. My Mistress had saved me and, at that moment, I knew I truly loved her!

- o O o -

We left Monaco as soon as we could and headed to our next venue, in Milan. Francoise insisted that I could not perform for at least a week, due to the welts on my body, but I’m sure she also understood just how traumatised I was. Serge was not happy, as Milan is a big art market and, much as he hated to admit it, I was the star of the show. But he felt guilty that they had not been able to protect me, and anyway, Francoise ruled the roost with him as well as me!

She organised for some kind of expert to come over and see about the removal of the collar and cuffs – I’m not sure if he was a doctor, jeweller or welder. But I think he was rather taken aback to be presented with a young woman welded into what were clearly bondage accessories. His opinion was that removing them would be dangerous – I could be seriously injured in the attempt – and might be impossible. Francoise decided she would seek further advice elsewhere.

I could hardly bear to be out of sight of Francoise, and indeed, when we were together, I clung to her like a nervous limpet. I slept at the foot of the bed, chained to the leg, but reassuringly within earshot of my Mistress’ breathing during the night.

She suggested I might want to go home to be with my parents, rather than continue the tour, but I would not have it. I told her I was worried that the sheikh might pursue me and, without her protection, abduct me again. Also, I wasn’t too sure how to explain the collar and cuffs to my mum and dad! But there was something else, something I still couldn’t articulate to myself, but I knew I wanted to stay with this remarkable woman.

Gradually, I came out of my terrified state, and was able to return to the show, although it was slightly diminished by the need to rely on my acting skills, rather than my actual fear or pain, which Francoise refused to inflict on me. However, once I recalled the image of Sheikh Ali Al Habsi leering at me and projected it onto the spider, my screaming was totally believable once more!

As we progressed around Europe – from Milan to Vienna, Munich, Hamburg, and Geneva – the relationship between Francoise and me deepened. We spent a lot of time together, and the more I listened to her, the more I watched her, the further in love with her I fell. It was so strange – I had started off disliking her for her haughty and domineering manner, hating her for the way she humiliated and demeaned me. But now, I loved her for her certainty, for knowing what was best for me, and making it happen.

If it had been a purely platonic love, I could have understood it – if I loved her like an older sister, I would have been fine. But there was an undeniable physical element – she was a beautiful woman, and I was attracted to her; I found myself aroused when I saw and heard her making love; I thrilled to her touch when we occasionally showered together; and I longed to pleasure her in any way I could, but particularly in the ways I had done in Paris.

I still didn’t think of myself as a lesbian, even though my experiences with men had all been bad, and my experiences with women – Francoise – had all been good. I had just met a remarkable person, who happened to be a woman, someone I wanted to be with, to serve, forever.

I was sure that, as much as I now wanted to serve her, she wanted me as her slave. She had surely been grooming me for this purpose for the last two months. The incident of my kidnapping had merely brought us closer together more quickly. As the tour drew to a close, I became excited, wondering what the structure of our future relationship would be.

We were performing in Amsterdam, and Francoise said we should have an ‘end of tour’ party, as this was our last show. She certainly made that last show memorable for me, by making me cum twice in each of the two performances! I was pretty tired by the time I was released, and I just sat around as Serge and Francoise packed up the van, ready to go back home to London tomorrow. Then we hit the town.

I am not a great drinker, and I had never taken drugs (I think I’ve mentioned my sheltered upbringing before), so going out in Amsterdam was a bit of a shock to the system. I was soon so drunk that I was falling off my high heels and displaying my bare arse and bald pussy to everyone, both accidentally and deliberately. Francoise suggested I needed to sober up a little, so we went to a coffee shop. The cigarettes people were smoking smelled weird, but the cake they gave me was really tasty! Everything seemed to be hilariously funny at that point, particularly Serge – I think he might have got a little annoyed with me, as I kept just pointing at him and giggling inanely.

We finally staggered back to the hotel, and I collapsed on the bed.

“Okay,” Francoise said, swaying from side to side a little, “we’ve been ordering you around for the last two months, and making you do lots of rude things.” I burst out laughing at the word ‘rude’ – it just sounded so rude! Hilarious, huh?

“As a special treat, and as it’s our last night, I think you should tell us what to do!” I looked over, and saw that Serge had sprawled himself across a chair and was now snoring quietly.

“Right!” I slurred, trying to focus, “I think he should do a striptease for us!”

Francoise gave him a swift kick to wake him up, then told him what he had to do. Being the guy he was – no shame or self-doubt whatsoever – he immediately started gyrating around the room, tossing his clothes this way and that, while Francoise and I fell about laughing. When he was naked, he continued his dancing, somewhere between belly- and disco-, resulting in his semi-erect cock flopping up and down, making me squeal with laughter. I told him he had to masturbate for us now, and he had no problem with that order, grabbing himself and coming over to where his wife and I were sprawled. As he pulled himself off, making himself good and hard, Francoise sat up and took his erection into her mouth and gave him a good suck. That looked like fun, so I sat up and grabbed it from her, licking and sucking away, until she barged me away and took over again. We playfully fought over his stiff member until it shot its load, spraying both of us in the face. We collapsed in gales of laughter once more.

“Okay,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows, “now you tie him to that chair.” Serge didn’t resist as his wife got out the rope and bound him tightly to the high-backed chair, arms behind his back, and ankles to the back legs, so he was spread wide and available.

“Now, you have to watch,” I said to Serge, “while she makes mad, passionate love… to me!”

Francoise turned to me with a broad smile, and proceeded to do her own striptease which, I have to say, was more of a turn on than his. When she was naked, she lay down on top of me and licked the cum off my face, before locking me in an open-mouthed kiss, accompanied by her groping and fondling my breasts. By the time I came up for air, I was panting, and it had nothing to do with a lack of oxygen! She transferred the attentions of her wicked tongue to my nipples, quickly bringing them erect until they were standing out like organ-stops!

“Oh, Maîtresse,” I moaned, “Oui… oui… oui!” I am sure that, if she had kept that up for much longer, she would have made me cum just sucking my nipples alone, but she had no intention of stopping there. She continued to suck and lick and nibble at my flesh as her mouth moved down across my stomach to my mound. I felt her tongue prod between my labia, and I let out a long, loud sigh as I opened my legs as wide as I could and let her go to work on me.

I grabbed the headboard above me and wrapped my legs around her, my ankles crossed somewhere in the middle of her back. Christ, she was good! I was crying out as her fingers pushed into my pussy, and her thumb even went up my bum, and it was all just perfect. She had sucked my clit into her mouth and was flicking it back and forth with her tongue when I came, thrashing and moaning and screaming…

She held me and kissed me, cuddling close, but her fingers kept roaming across my hypersensitive skin. Pretty soon, she had me crying out again, begging her for mercy, but really just wanting her to do that forever! When I climaxed for the second time, it was absolutely earth-shattering, and I fell asleep afterwards, warm, deeply content, and in my Mistress’ arms.

The trip to London the next day was not so much fun. I was allowed to sit next to the door so that I could roll down the window if I needed to throw up. It was a position I took advantage of on several occasions. For the rest of the journey, I just lay my throbbing head in my Mistress’ lap, hoping I might die, just to end the pain!

“So, this is it,” Francoise said, as we sat together in a Starbucks. Serge had gone to unload the van, and I was trying to sort out my hangover with copious amounts of black coffee.

“It’s been a wonderful summer, Terèse, I want to thank you for being such a good sport.”

It gradually filtered through the fog in my head that she was saying goodbye!

“Mais, Maîtresse,” I stammered, unable to find the words in my befuddled state, “er, en Anglais, s’il vous plait?” She smiled and nodded.

“You can’t leave me, Maîtresse… I thought I would be your… that you would be my Maîtresse forever…” I ran out of words to express my confusion, my disbelief. Surely, she wanted me in the same way I wanted her? I needed her!

“Oh, ma petite souris,” she said with a smile and a look of pity, “I was afraid of this.” She put her hands around mine, and I looked at her like a lost puppy.

“This was just a summer thing! I have my husband, and my job to do – I run an art gallery in Paris for the rest of the year. You have your whole life to live! Go and enjoy it!”

“But Maîtresse,” I said, the tears coming to my eyes, “Now I know what I want to do with my life – I want to be your slave, to serve you, to please you! Please let me be yours, Maîtresse!” I knew I was being stupid – she had a husband whom she loved deeply – but I couldn’t imagine going back to life as it was before. She sighed deeply, and seemed to make a decision.

“I thought it might come to this,” she said, looking deeply into my eyes, “you have discovered that you have a yearning to be a submissive. Your infatuation with me will pass, but you can never change your true nature.”

She waved her hand in a beckoning motion, and I looked around to see who she was signalling. A woman, in her early thirties at a guess, smartly dressed in a well-cut trouser suit and white blouse, with expensive-looking jewellery, was smiling in a kindly way at me as she walked over.

“This is Mistress Jessica,” Francoise said, “she is a very good friend of mine, I’ve known her for years. You will go with her and she will train you to be the perfect little serving girl. This is my last order to you!” She looked sternly at me, as I glanced doubtfully from one to the other.

“Oui, Maîtresse,” I said obediently, heart-broken, defeated. I stood up, and followed Mistress Jessica out of the shop, glancing back at my Mistress, then looking forward, to my new Mistress.

- o O o -

I saw Mistress Francoise a couple of months later, when she came to visit Mistress Jessica at her house in north London. I opened the door to her in my black maid’s outfit, and dropped a curtsy, as I had been taught, but with a broad smile on my face. I showed her into the drawing room and fetched Mistress Jessica, before going off to make tea. When I returned, they were deep in conversation, but looked up and smiled at me as I came in.

“You’re looking very well, Terèse, very fit and trim,” Francoise commented.

“Merci, Maîtresse,” I replied, bobbing another curtsy, my eyes cast down as the floor – I wanted to give her the best possible impression for Mistress Jessica’s sake!

“She’s a credit to you, Jessica.”

“Thank you, I’m very happy with her,” my Mistress said, giving me a smile which made me blush with pride.

“I was going to sell her on,” she continued, “but she’s so delightful, I decided to keep her. She’s invaluable around the house and, I have to say, extremely good at relieving the stresses of the day!”

They chatted and caught up on their lives for the rest of the afternoon, while I happily waited on them. Later on, I was allowed to strip down to my collar and cuffs - Mistress Jessica had decided she liked them, they went well with whatever I was wearing, even when I was wearing nothing – and show Mistress Francoise what new tricks I had learned about giving my Mistress pleasure. From the noise she made, I think she was impressed!

When she left, Mistress Francoise gave me a kiss and told me how pleased she was for me that I had ‘found my calling’. When we were alone again, Mistress Jessica allowed me to relieve the tension from her day in the best possible way.

I didn’t go back to college – I don’t think I was ever cut out to be an Art student. I have been with Mistress Jessica for more than ten years now, and could not be happier. I feel that I’ve been so lucky, because my life really only fell into place when my student crush on my Art tutor went so spectacularly wrong!

The End

Copyright© 2012 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.